


The Evenstar in Wait

by Renega



Series: Stay Gold [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cotton Candy Fluff, F/M, Shameless, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22702513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renega/pseuds/Renega
Summary: The candy floss fluffsicle that Stay Gold lacked. I left some Chekov's Guns on the wall because it had to end *somewhere*. But I wasn't done, turns out.Might not make sense unless you've read that one.Happy Valentine's Day to all my fellow single ladies who need a bit of fluff to go with the wine.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Stay Gold [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639381
Comments: 14
Kudos: 68





	The Evenstar in Wait

[Stay Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22522567)  
  
“Jaime, get _out_.” It takes everything she has to choke the words out, pinned to the bed as she is, blind with pain, slick with sweat and _effort_.

He doesn't move, just leans against the doorway of her privy.

“Wylla, get him out of here.”

Wylla is holding her hand and shakes her head. “Just ignore him. Focus, Brienne.”

But her aunt Eyfa listens, gets up from where she's rinsing out a towel, and makes for him. “Ser Brynden -”

“If you think I'm going back out into that hallway to drink with Selwyn while she's screaming her head off, you're going to be sorely disappointed. He knows where I went. Ask him if he wants one of the youths to remove his castellan on the point of a sword, or just -”  
  
“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

They do. Eyfa lays the towel across her brow instead of confronting the fool lurking in her privy chamber.

And then it's all blinding pain again, a pain so intense it feels transcendent. She's above all of it, even though her body is betraying her as it yields to the inevitable.

“That's it, that's it, lean into it,” Wylla soothes, kneeling at the foot of the bed.

“Parry, wench! Put your weight behind it.”

He is a dead man when she can lift a sword again. This is all his fault, all of it, every last bit, and he's mocking her from the doorway of her toilet and she wishes he would come closer, just close enough that she could reach up and strangle him, wrap her hands around his pale white neck and choke the life from him while he whimpers.

He's too shrewd to beard the lion in its den, and he stays well away from her reach.  
  
“I yield!”

She's going to die.

She's never felt pain this intense.

But with a great rush, it is over. She falls back against the bed, too exhausted to even sit up and examine what's just heaved out of her body. She gasps and closes her eyes for a minute, trying to get her bearings.

Cracks them open. Eyfa is holding a knife. Fear grips her, even as her aunt slashes at Wylla's hunched form with the knife and then sets it down to begin rubbing Brienne's stomach. “Perfect, that was perfect.”

Wylla smacks the small blue creature in her arms and it lets out a lusty wail. She sighs in relief.

They have both lived through it, at least this far.

And then he is there, holding her hand and leaning on the side of her bed, and she discovers she doesn't want to kill him after all.

“Is she -” she begins, but he's already shaking his head, and he looks happier than she's ever seen him.

“It's a boy.”

“Damn your brother.”

He smiles down at her, and he is rubbing her wrist and bends down to kiss her softly on the forehead. “You can try for a girl on your next one.”

“No more,” she hisses. “I have done my duty. I haven't been able to mount a horse in three months, it's ridiculous. I'm going to beat you into the dirt for this as soon as I'm able to strap on my sword.”

He laughs. “I look forward to it.”

“You would.”

On her left side, Wylla stands with their babe. Blue has given way to pink skin peeking from the white towels. She feels a possessiveness toward the bundle she only barely recognizes. It's what she feels for Podrick, but magnified a million times.

She ignores the man holding her right hand in his good one as Wylla leans in, puts the babe to her breast, tries to show her the mechanics.

She understands the mechanics, as Jaime taught them to her. But this doesn't feel like arousal, just relief and bliss as her child settles in.

And then Wylla and her aunt are gone with their basins and buckets and soiled linens, and there is just the sound of the wee lad suckling and their mingled breaths. He slides his body against her side, settles in next to her on the edge of the bed, and she scoots over to give him more room.

Florian and Jonquil frolic in a meadow over their heads. Her white curtains flutter in the breeze coming in from the cracked window. She's happier than she's ever been...she's complete.

“Well done, Lord Commander, but I don't think you can name him Rohanne.”

She giggles, entwines her fingers with his.

“Well I'm not naming him Tyrion. The little rat can hang. What do you think, Ser Brynden? What would Ser Jaime want if he were here, now?”

She feels him convulse as he swallows against her shoulder. His voice is thick when he answers with a question. “A Lannister name?”

“Of course. He's a Lannister, for all he's the Evenstar in wait. Speak for his father; choose a name.”

“Gerion,” he whispers.

Gerion, for the uncle he loved. It's a good name, one that never made Samwell's lists. A younger son, full of Wanderlust, disappeared into the vast seas somewhere...left no great tales or legacy, just the love of his family. It's a good name. Gerion of Tarth.

“I like it,” she whispers back. His tears are hot on her shoulder, and her milk is coming in fast and hard. She aches all over, snuggles deeper into the covers, deeper against him, burrowing down. Nesting, Wylla called it. As the birds do. “Gerry.”

They hold each other for a while; she's not sure how much time passes. His tears cease and his breathing deepens, and she wonders if he's fallen asleep even as the babe – Gerry – smacks his tiny lips and begins to slumber against her skin.  
  
“Tyion's box,” she whispers. He's not asleep after all, he starts and shifts against her. “Will you get it for me? It's in my blue trunk.”

He mumbles something that sounds like a protest, but then heaves himself off the bed and pads over to her trunk, throwing the lid open. He rustles through her reams of ridiculous dresses and makes a small sound when he finds his quarry, coming up with the box clutched in his hands. His face is etched in grief as he rises up and makes his way to her with it.

“What is it?” She asks, worried about the lines on his face and the ghosts in his eyes as he offers it out to her.  
  
“It was my mother's,” he grunts, sitting with his weight on the edge of the bed. He won't meet her eyes as she slides the lion's mane around and pops open the lock, lifting the carved wooden lid. The silk within is the brilliant red of poppies, embroidered with solid gold lions. She doesn't have the energy to unfold the cloak, to examine it in all its detail and glory. And she doesn't need to unfurl it to know what it is or why it holds such weight for the man at her side.

“Her wedding cloak,” she says, picking at the paper folded and stuck into the edges of the lid. She unfolds it and can't help but laugh, hands it over and up to him.  
  
“Make an honest woman of her, you fool,” he reads aloud, and then he is laughing too. “Alright. It seems entirely too late to be asking, but Brienne – will you marry me?”

She thinks about that, the implications of it. She doesn't want to refuse him, but...”I married my Jaime in Winterfell...and while I can be Ser Brynden's consort and his friend, I prefer to go to my grave as Jaime's widow.”  
  
“As myself, Brienne. With your father and Devan and Wylla and Eyfa and our little Gerry. In the Light of the Seven and the name of all that is proper. They already know. And then I can go back to being Ser Brynden the Fool and you can go back to being bloody Lord Commander, but for a night...just for a night, let's get this right, even if none of it is in the right order.”

She nods, closes the box and hands it over to him. “Alright, but not tonight. Tonight I just want to sleep. I'm bloody exhausted.”  
  
“Then sleep, wench. I'll be here, watching over you.” He sets his burden on the floor, but gently, and then climbs back into the bed, tunic and trousers and all, pausing only to tug off his boots.

“You can't sleep here,” she mumbles, slurring her words. “My father might come in to see him, and the servants...”

“Everybody who matters already knows, love. Sweet dreams.”

She doesn't have the energy to fight him. His hand is making lazy circles on her stomach under the blankets when sleep takes her, and her dreams are sweet indeed.


End file.
